


Pull Me Off of My Knees

by poprocks



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Rope Bondage, but also peter being whiny and impatient, look i just want gamora being in charge and peter loving every second of it, this was totally accidental and i regret nothing, uhhhhh i have no idea what else to tag this with gg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocks/pseuds/poprocks
Summary: Patience has kept her alive. Patience has made her an impeccable killer. And patience helps her keep Peter Quill in line.





	Pull Me Off of My Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I kept thinking about [this awesome thing](http://kitandkanoodle.tumblr.com/post/162079176044/enigma731-please-imagine-peter-trying-to-explain) that @kitandkanoodle wrote, and I wanted to write something with these cute dummies following through on exploring kinks. (I also attribute "pineapple" to her, tbh.)
> 
> The title is from "Footloose" lyrics by Kenny Loggins.

Patience is a skill.

A learned skill, to be sure, and one Gamora has been forced to hone over years and years of dedicated training. Patience makes for an effective assassin, gives her the focus to wait out a target, to guarantee a perfect strike – and she’s used this skill nearly her entire life. Patience has kept her alive. Patience has made her an impeccable killer.

And patience helps her keep Peter Quill in line.

She learns very quickly that Peter is not a patient man. He wants to _do_ , to _act_ , and she's seen him practically vibrate with the need to do more than sit on his hands and _wait._ Which isn’t to say that Peter is a liability because of it – perhaps the opposite. He’s quick on his feet, and with how easily he can adjust and adapt his strategy, he maintains a level of competence that Gamora finds admirable for a Terran (well, half-Terran). Peter continually impresses her in battle, and over the months spent with the Guardians, she realizes that Peter is a formidable warrior, dangerous in his own right, until—

—he comes off of the battlefield.

In various other aspects of his life, Peter’s impatience shines through like a beacon of restlessness. What he wants, he wants _now_ , and that greediness occasionally bleeds into moments that Gamora endeavors to temper in him. She doesn’t intend to extinguish it (because, if anything, she finds that impatience endearing), but she wants him to learn to _wait._

To listen.

To obey.

Peter is the Guardians' leader in so many respects, but in these moments alone with Gamora, with her fingers buried in messy curls and his breathing coming in harsh, ragged gasps, he’s given up _so much_ to her. He follows _her_ lead, hands her the reins and doesn’t even consider trying to take them back – not until she willingly offers them to him. It doesn’t take much for them to fall into the rhythm of this particular dance, because as soon as Gamora backs Peter into the bulkhead, as soon as she yanks his face down to her level by the collar of his shirt, she sees the darkening in his eyes and the way he _gulps_. There are plenty of times when Gamora is more than happy to follow Peter’s steps, to let him lavish her with attention and affection and pleasure. But days like this? When she has him on his knees before her, naked and needy and so thoroughly debauched she can hardly stand it?

On these particular days, Gamora sets the tempo.

He looks stunning now, she thinks, because she’s trussed him up in a silk rope dyed red (Ravager red, Peter had called it once with a wry little smile). It stands starkly against flushed skin, and the intricate patterns that keep him restrained are flattering, accentuating the ridge of muscle and all the perfect edges and planes of Peter’s body. He’s a handsome man, a gorgeous man, and though Peter is so often the one to shower her with compliments, she can’t help the fondness that curls in her chest as she looks down at him in her delicate, purposeful ties. His hands are secured behind his back – though not strenuously so – and she can see the way he flexes against his bonds with the urge to reach for his throbbing cock.

He’s been hard for ages now, ever since Gamora pulled out the rope, and he’s been very accommodating this entire time. He sat still for her (despite how difficult she knows that can be for him), and he only started to squirm when Gamora turned her attention away from the ties to touching _him._

“G’Mora—“ His voice comes breathy, practically a whine as she trails fingertips down his throat.

“Yes?” It thrills her to hear the need edging into his slurred attempt of her name, but she keeps her own tone level – unaffected.

“I can’t— C’mon, I’ve been just— sitting here, c’ _mon._ ” 

“Do you have a problem with sitting there?”

Despite the flush in his cheeks and how unsteady his breathing is, Peter still manages a dry look. 

“You’re just _teasing_ me.” 

“Because I want to,” Gamora says somewhat dismissively. “And as I recall, you agreed to let me do whatever I want. Wasn’t that the arrangement?”

Peter’s jaw ticks once, and she sees the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows. “Y-yeah…”

“Are you using your words?” The words designated to keep things safe – “pineapple,” to stop, though Gamora has no idea what a pineapple actually is, and “hotrod” to slow down, which Peter apparently found thoroughly amusing when they’d outlined these procedures; something about using a word for a typically fast object had enough irony to make Peter snort with laughter at his own terrible joke.

Gamora is offering him an opportunity to get her to ease up, but when Peter looks up to meet her eyes, she can tell he hasn’t reached that point yet.

“No.”

“Then stop complaining.” This order is a little sharper, and Gamora pairs it with fingers tangling tight in Peter’s hair, tugging his head back to look at the ceiling instead of her.

He hisses in a surprised gasp, but it melts into a whimper as he trembles with the lightning bolts of pleasure/pain that accompany the sudden yank on his hair. Gamora knows by now just the right amount of pressure to use to get such a response from him, and while he can’t quite see it, her lips curl in a somewhat more feral smile – pleased by his reaction.

“Can you walk on your knees?”

Peter nods as much as he can while she still grips his hair.

“Say it.”

“Yes, yeah, I— yeah." 

It’s a response that would have only required one word, and yet Peter still manages to stumble over a few too many. It's endearing. It’s _Peter._

“Then I’m going to sit in this chair, and I want you to kneel in front of me. Understood?”

“Yes.”

This time, he finds the simple answer.

Gamora eases her grip, smoothing back messy curls and letting her fingers brush along the hinge of his jaw – a brief flicker of more genuine affection, a reminder that she values what he’s giving her here.

But he still needs to learn _patience._ That much is obvious by the way he squirms, how she catches sight of his hands flexing behind his back. She knows he wants to touch himself by now, and she _could_ untie him and let him do exactly what he aches for, but she _knows_ that he’ll enjoy it more when he waits.

(Even if Peter may not be coherent enough to realize that for himself.)

She finally steps away, and Peter watches her avidly as she lowers herself into one of the overstuffed chairs of the _Quadrant’s_ captain’s quarters. She’s discarded her shirt at this point, along with her pants, and only her panties remain in the way of Peter’s view of her. Spreading her thighs, she slides her own palms up the inside of her legs, higher, over her hipbones, until she can dip her fingertips inside the waistband of the black fabric. Her underwear is tacky with her own wetness (because little excites her quite like seeing Peter at her mercy), and when she slides her fingers over her pussy, she can tell _exactly_ how much she’s enjoyed this.

Peter practically _whimpers_ , a strangled sound in the back of his throat as his cock gives a visible jerk.

The smirk curling at Gamora’s lips widens, and she pulls her fingers free to motion Peter closer. He doesn’t waste an instant crawling forward on his knees, which she’d been kind enough to leave untied. As he manages his way across the steel floor, Gamora slips her panties over her hips, casting them to the side carelessly and spreading her legs again to give him somewhere to settle before her. 

He kneels between her thighs, and there’s a moment where he can’t seem to decide where he wants to _look_ – at her face and that beguiling heat in her eyes, her breasts so readily on display, or her soaking sex, tantalizing close and yet simultaneously too far. She can see the way he itches to reach for her, to get his broad hands on her skin, but she makes no moves to undo his bonds or make this any easier for him.

However, in an effort to ensure some of his comfort, she shifts her knees forward, leaves them level with his shoulders to give him something to rest against. He takes the opportunity without missing a beat, leaning in and brushing his nose across the smooth, green skin of her thigh. Her eyes never leave his face as he inches higher with messy kisses, and his beard tickles faintly, though the sensation is easily disregarded in favor of the heat of his mouth. He moves higher, higher, higher, until he could simply extend his tongue and touch her, but—

Her hand is quick, snapping out to stop him just short of her heat. Another dismayed noise that Peter is too far gone to feel shame for, and Gamora reaches out with her other hand to cup his chin, to make him look up. His glazed-over eyes meet hers, and there’s a moment where she just _looks_ at him, at how lost he is giving himself to her like this. It’s magnificent, _beautiful_ , because she knows all too well how hard it can be for Peter to get out of his own head sometimes – how much he needs to not think about all that he’s lost or all that he fears he may yet lose, how he needs to be distracted from the weight of the team and his role as their leader. He needs to feel— free.

Gamora can give that to him.

“You’re forgetting something,” she murmurs, a sweeter note in her low tone.

Peter blinks blearily at her, then frowns slightly. Gamora could almost laugh; the confusion on his face is bordering adorable, though she knows better than to say as much in this moment.

“The magic word, Peter.” 

There’s something amusing to Gamora about referring to it that way. Peter’s griped at various points about _common decency_ and “how hard is a damn ‘please’ every now and then?” (Despite his own atrocious manners, which Gamora is usually one to point out.) Months and months ago, Gamora had reached for a box of cereal Peter was currently holding out of Rocket’s reach, and he’d simply held it higher between the two of them, grinning in the most _insufferable_ of ways as he said, “What’s the magic word?”

And now, Peter has enough presence of mind that his eyes light with distant humor in the face of that burning need. He licks his lips, and finally, manages a hoarse, “ _Please._ ”

Gamora doesn’t see the need to continue denying him.

Her hands slide away, and she leans back, thighs spread wider – while still bracing his shoulders. Peter dives in without an ounce of hesitation, like a man dying of thirst given his first sip of water. 

Peter Quill is greedy in so many aspects of his life, and this is somehow no different. He’s greedy to please her, greedy for the sounds that he can wring from the deadliest woman in the universe, and he doesn't bother to tease her at this point. He knows that isn’t the name of the game tonight.

He licks her in broad strokes first, tracing every inch of her with the flat of his tongue, eager and wanting and— somehow _relieved_. He may have been impatient for his own pleasure, but getting his mouth on Gamora seems to have eased the edge that had been gnawing away at him as long as he’d been kneeling on the deck of the captain’s quarters. He tastes everything he can, flicking over her clit again and again before his tongue darts inside of her. 

It would be dishonest to say that Peter hasn't _earned_ his reputation, because he’s _good_ at this. If his hands were free, she knows he would be fucking her with his fingers, spreading her open as he sucked at her clit, but even restrained as he is, he makes do. Gamora grabs at his hair, at his shoulder to brace herself as he does _something_ with the tip of his tongue that makes her see stars. There’s something so open and vulnerable about the way she sounds when he does this, when they do _anything_ together, and she can feel the curve of his lips against her as he wrings a particularly pointed moan from her. She would admonish him for it, but it doesn’t _matter_ , not when he presses inside of her _just right_.

She knows her nails are biting marks in his skin, knows she’s tugging on the right side of too-rough when he groans against her pussy, that need rocking them both as her hips start to grind into his face. They’re so in sync now, and Peter is just as aware of her impending orgasm as she is, because he redoubles his efforts, focuses on her clit and maintains the right pressure, the right rhythm until—

She breaks with a shout of his name, too much and too loud for her to keep in check with the lightning that races through her system, pleasure that shakes her body and makes her nerves _sing_. Her thighs clamp down around his head, holding him there as she rides it out, and though she distantly realizes it must be uncomfortable for him, he doesn’t seem inclined to protest.

(As long as she doesn’t accidentally crush his head, there’s no harm, she supposes.)

Every ounce of tension slides out of her body as she goes limp against the chair, slumping down and releasing him completely. He seems equally breathless as he rests his cheek on her thigh, looking up at her with green eyes so dark she can barely make out any color. But there, at the corner of his lips, is that soft and crooked smile that so rarely finds its way to his face. There are no pretenses behind it, no airs to be maintained, and she finds herself wholly _warmed_ by the way he looks at her.

She meets that smile with one of her own (though somewhat more breathless), and in that moment, Gamora wants nothing more than to just… _hold_ him. To be _close._

It takes some maneuvering, but Gamora slides herself out of the chair to the floor with Peter. His eyes haven’t left her as she kneels in front of him, and she runs her hands along his shoulders and arms, feeling over the rope that’s so diligently kept him in place. She momentarily checks a few key points, sliding her fingers under the knots to make sure there’s ample room and no circulation is being constricted. She shifts closer, reaching behind him for his hands.

“Squeeze my fingers. Tightly,” she orders, firm but gentle, and Peter closes his hands around hers, squeezing as instructed.

No impeded nerve function, and he still seems coherent enough to follow directions.

Good.

Carefully, she leads Peter to lean against her, and he rests his head on her shoulder, turning his face to press against her throat.

“‘Mora…" He sounds distant, but there’s affection laced in his tone.

Gamora smiles softly as she nuzzles against his hair, his curls damp with sweat (though she barely notices). Her hands travel over his ribs, down his sides and lower still to his cock – still hard, still waiting. The barest brush of fingertips trails from base to tip, and Peter jerks against her on a ragged gasp as Gamora holds him steady.

“Do you want to come?”

Peter nods immediately, like he doesn’t quite trust his voice, but even then, babbled words fall from his mouth. “G-god, _yes_ , please, fuck.” He trembles as she wraps her hand around him properly, and the noise out of him is practically a _sob._ “Fuck, please, please, Gamora, _please_ —“

Everything from him now is near incoherent rambling, and Gamora just _smiles_ as she finds a rhythm with her hand. He rocks with her as best he can, but he mostly leans into her, lets her do whatever she wants with him as she draws out moans and pleas, a higher whine with a twist of her wrist.

She can feel him getting closer as he pulses in her palm, as his whole body cords with anticipation and fiery need, and Peter’s voice takes on a more desperate edge.

“G'Mora, can— can I— _fuck_ , I’m gonna— I can’t—“ He’s struggling to keep himself in check, and Gamora loves it just as much as she’s loved everything else in this moment.

She turns her face to press her lips to his ear. “Go ahead.” 

And that’s all it takes.

Peter comes with a choked-out moan of her name, and she feels warmth splash across her knuckles, her wrist, all the way up her stomach, and then Peter is nothing but deadweight against her. She’s quick to brace him, holding him up and letting him slump against her in the same moment, and with her clean hand, she tangles fingers in his hair and holds him even closer.

“You did well,” she says softly as he continues to breathe heavily, slowly starting to come down.

“… _Fuck_ ,” is about the only thing he can manage.

Gamora scoffs lightly (a sound which may even have shared parentage with a laugh), and she eases them both back so she can lean against the chair with Peter in her arms.

“I can untie the rope,” she offers quietly.

Peter shakes his head against her. “No, ‘m good. Just… gimme a minute.”

“Are you sure? You’d be more comfortable without it.”

“No, no, just— don’t move.” He nuzzles into her shoulder like he could possibly get any closer. “Do it in a sec.”

She sighs, but she doesn’t pull away from him. “You’re going to have marks from how much you struggled.”

Peter huffs a laugh against her skin. “Gonna look _awesome._ ”

“You’re absurd,” she informs him, not unkindly as she keeps carding fingers through his hair.

They stay like that for a while, until Peter starts to shift against her, tilting his head up to look at her with that same small, crooked smile. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” she says back.

“That was pretty great.” And that crooked grin starts to broaden, something sillier and almost giddy in a wholly endearing way.

“Mm, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Gamora pushes his hair away from his face, her own tiny, fond smile reflected back at him.

“Hey,” he repeats.

Gamora lifts a brow. “What, Peter?”

He struggles to sit up (motion made difficult by the rope still around his arms), until his face is level with hers. “I love you.” And he says it with such— open honesty that something in Gamora’s chest just _aches._ “You know that, right?”

Gamora’s soft smile doesn’t falter, and she reaches up with her clean hand to cup his jaw.

“I really do.”

And in the light of the stars that pours through the viewport, Gamora kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come scream at me on [tumblr](floralforelsket.tumblr.com) about this ship, because I am Starmora trash until I die.


End file.
